Lauren Haney - The Right Hand of Amon

Vaguely aware of the crash of water in the channel behind him, he thought over the task ahead. To finish in time would be difficult, he decided, but not impossible. "The floor will have to be cleared and cleaned," he told Pashenuro. "Leave all the trees and bushes where they are, at least for now. They'll give life to'this place, make it seem less harsh and abandoned. Save all fallen bricks that still remain whole and whatever else you find of value. Dump the rest into the river."

"Yes, sir," Pashenuro said.

"The walls will be your greatest problem," Huy said, staring at a large irregular gap at the northwest corner. "You've no time to make new bricks."

"We'll fill the holes with rubble," Pashenuro said. "And have Amon-Psaro laugh at so crude a fortress?" Bak shook his head. "No. If no one objects"-he queried Huy with a glance-"we can mine the old, abandoned houses in Iken, prying out bricks that are whole, and sail them across the river for reuse here."

"An excellent idea!" Huy smiled his approval. "With enough men, you might well turn this fortress into a place befitting a king."

"I must accept your offer of Puemre's company," Bak said reluctantly. "Pashenuro will need half the men here on the island and four or five masons to show them how to lay the bricks. The rest should remain in Iken, gathering bricks for shipment across the river."

"Done!" Huy nodded. "Puemre's sergeant, Minnakht, is a good and trustworthy man. You can look to him with confidence to head those who'll work in the city."

With the worst of his difficulties resolved, Bak allowed himself to breathe more freely. He did not deceive himself that the task would be easy, but he was certain it could be done. If the lord Amon smiled on him-and on his workmen-it should be finished before Amon-Psaro marched into Iken.

Bak stood at the gate, looking back at Nebwa's spearmen, the core of his work force. Their lean-to tents had been set up, a hearth built, tools distributed, food and supplies stowed away. One man knelt at the hearth, dropping vegetables into a pot, and another was kneading bread. A half dozen men were spread out across the northern end of the fortress, cleaning the stone and hard-packed earthen floor, while the rest carried baskets of debris through a far gate to the river. They had accomplished a lot in their short stint on the island, yet the task ahead looked endless.

"We'll go to the barracks the moment we get back to Iken," he promised Pashenuro. "You should have help by midday and Micks long before nightfall."

The Medjay nodded and hurried back to his crew. As Bak turned away to follow Huy down the path to the skiff, his eyes drifted unbidden toward the roaring maelstrom downstream. From where he stood, he could see no waterfall, but he guessed from the gathering speed of the river, the distant roar, and the amount of foam hurling into the air that the riverbed fell substantially, not all at one time, but in a series of cascades.

Ships sometimes traveled those rapids, he knew, when the river rose to its greatest height, laying a protective depth of water over many of the rocks. Using sturdy ropes, men standing on the islands or on unsubmerged boulders manhandled the vessels upstream or guided them through the deepest channels while the current carried them downstream. His feeling for Inyotef swung from pity to admiration; the pilot was responsible for guiding the ships through the rapids as well as along less troubled waters.

Bak saw an object in the mist, a vague image emerging from the steaming, roiling water. It looked for an instant like the head and shoulders of a man. No, he thought. Impossible. Abruptly the figure vanished from sight, a figment of his imagination he was sure. Then he saw it again in the smoother water above the rapid, moving slowly across the current, aiming toward the long island. A second figure emerged from the foam, and a third. The first reached the shallow water along the shore and stood up. A man. No, a boy!

He stared hard, unable to believe any human being could survive so great a turbulence. "Are my eyes deceiving me?"

Huy, halfway down the path, glanced downstream and laughed. "The local men and boys swim these waters with ease, using goatskins filled with air to lift them to the surface each time the lord Hapi pulls them under. I, too, when first I saw them, thought my eyes played tricks on me."

"They've more courage than I have, or are more foolhardy."

"The river is the center of their lives, Lieutenant, from birth to death and from dawn to dusk. They know all its habits through the seasons and how to use them to their advantage."

Bak watched the last boy wade onto the island and shake off the water like a dog. "I count myself a fair swimmer, and I like the water, but those boiling rapids hold no appeal." _

"You're fortunate you can swim. I'd drown in a quiet pool.,

"You've never learned how?"

"Why do you think I sail with such care?"

Noting Huy's discomfort, Bak allowed the subject to die. He did not want to humble the officer, nor could he afford to alienate him.

As he unfurled the sail, a bright yellow rectangle of heavy fabric, and raised the upper yard, he said, "Nebwa tells me you've spent much of your life in Wawat."

Huy settled into the prow of the skiff, facing forward. "I've lived in Kemet, serving in the fortresses along our eastern frontier, and once I served as envoy to the land of Keftiu, but I think of Wawat as my home."

"You won the gold of valor, I've been told, while fighting in this barren land."

"Twenty-seven years ago, it was, far to the south in the land of Kush." Huy smiled at the memory. "I was a young man then, a raw recruit with more courage than good sense. I fought without thought, risking my life as if I were immortal." He glanced at Bak, chuckled. "Though often foolish, I acted the hero, and won a golden fly to prove it."

Bak saw pride on the officer's face and the humility of a truly brave man. He hoped Huy was not the murderer he was seeking. "Did you have occasion to see Amon-Psaro's father?"

"Only at a distance, and not until we won our final battle. He was a prisoner, his arms shackled, his head bowed with grief at the loss of his army, hundreds upon hundreds of good and valiant men."

"What of Amon-Psaro? Was he there, too?"

Huy shook his head. "He was a child, too young to stand with his father on the field of battle. I didn't get to know him until later."

"You actually knew Amon-Psaro?" Bak was so surprised he almost forgot to adjust the sail so they could pass. the southern tip of the long island.

Huy eyed him with curiosity. "We took him hostage. Did you not know? He grew to manhood in the royal house in Waset."

"Is that where you met him?"

"I was among the party who took him north." Huy's voice grew distant, following his thoughts into the past. "We spent many days together, sailing downriver to our capital. First, I served as a guard, ordered not to let him escape and flee back to his father. Later, when we were far away and he could no longer think of returning to Kush, we played games together and wrestled and fished and hunted. I like to believe I made him forget the loneliness he felt and the sadness of leaving his home and family."

Bak felt as if he had found a lump of gold in a long-dry desert watercourse. Huy had not simply known Amon-Psaro; he had known him well. Well enough to become his enemy? "You were good friends, then."

"He was my brother." Huy's smile turned wry. "I was very young, at heart only a child. When we bade good-bye at the door of the royal house, I left with tears on my cheeks. I knew I'd never see him again, and I didn't."

He was telling the truth, Bak felt sure, but was it the whole truth? "You must be looking forward to meeting him again."

"He'll not remember me. Too many years have passed." Huy spoke in an offhand manner, but Bak heard something else in his voice: a hope that Amon-Psaro would recognize him. As the friend he had lost so many years ago? Or as a long-standing foe?