Lauren Haney - The Right Hand of Amon

The ship's master waved a farewell to Pashenuro and hurried down the path to the landing.

"Did your duties ever take you to the court of Amon-Psaro?"

Senu's eyes darted toward the departing sailor. "Wait!" he called. "I must go!" he told Bak. "The men assigned to the evening watch could even now be awaiting me."

He swung away, loped to the gate, and rushed outside. Bak followed as far as the empty portal and watched him hurry down the path toward the soon-to-depart vessel. Another supply boat, the last of the day, was moored a short distance upstream, waiting to take its place at the landing, where it could more easily be unloaded. Bak turned away and went back inside. He had no doubt Senu had to inspect the watch, but he had a feeling duty had very little to do with the hasty retreat.

After a final discussion with Pashenuro over additional supplies and rations needed for the following day, Bak hurried out the gate, eager to be on his way before darkness fell.. He had no wish to sail those treacherous waters in the fading light of dusk, and to make the attempt in the dark would be suicidal.

He stopped short at the top of the path. His skiff was gone, no longer tied to the post. Muttering a curse, he glanced upstream, thinking someone had borrowed it. He saw the supply boat, rounding the southern tip of the long island on its way to lken. Other than that, the channel was empty. He swung around, looking downstream. There he saw the skiff, fifty or so paces away, about halfway between the landing and the tumbling rapids. The empty vessel bobbed on the water, its prow aimed upstream, its stern bumping the rocky shore. The mooring rope was snagged on something below the surface, the boat anchored in place, but with the current so strong it was only a matter of time before the vessel broke free.

Bak snarled an oath and plunged down the path. How could that accursed boat have broken loose? At the river's edge, he ran north through the sparse brush, following a line of trees whose roots were washed by the rising waters, risking a twisted ankle on the rough stony terrain. A sparrow darted from limb to limb, scolding him, but its voice was lost in the thunder of the rapids. He drew even with the small craft and, giving no thought to possible hazards such as sharp rocks or old, discarded spearpoints, he stepped into ankle-deep water and reached for the hull. The aft end swung away, tugged out of his grasp by a whim of the current. Or the perversity of the gods.

He took another step into the river, knee-deep now with the current pushing his legs, trying to shove him downstream. Another step, thigh-deep and chilly, the pressure of the current more insistent. He reached for the skiff. It ducked away, darting downstream at least two paces and edging farther from the island, then jerked to a halt. Its anchor, a rock most likely, was shifting on the bottom. He had no time to waste. The rope could break free at any moment and the vessel be carried into the rapids.

Still he hesitated, thinking of the boys he had seen emerge from the rapids that morning, wishing he had one of their goatskins to help him stay buoyant. Erasing so useless a thought from his heart, he gritted his teeth and dived into the water with a mighty shove of his feet. The current caught him, and at the same time his momentum carried him to the skiff. He grabbed the prow. His added weight tore the rope free and the vessel began to swing around, moving swiftly toward the boiling waters, sweeping away any vague idea he might have had about climbing aboard. With a renewed sense of urgency, he caught the rope and, summoning forth his most powerful strokes, propelled himself toward the shore. The skiff seemed to come alive, trying to jerk out of his grasp, but he was a strong swimmer and the distance was short.

As he clod on the row of trees, he found the bottom and stood up. He had been swept so close to the rapids, he could feel the mist carried on the northerly breeze. He waded to dry ground, his knees shaking from effort and tension. The skiff was like a fractious colt, tugging and bucking behind him. Wiping the water from his face, he pulled the vessel close against the shore, where the current was not so strong, and sat on an outcropping rock. He needed to catch his breath-and to offer thanks to the lord Hapi for allowing him and the skiff to reach dry land and safety.

"Lieutenant!" A shout muffled by the rapids.

Bak glanced around, thinking for an instant he had imagined the call. Pashenuro was scrambling down the steep slope behind him. Three other men, one carrying a coiled rope on his shoulder, were hurrying after the Medjay through the brush and water-torn rocks clinging to the incline below the fortress wall. A rescue mission.

"Are you alright, sir?" "How did you know…?"

Even as he formed the question, his eyes traveled up the tall mudbrick wall towering behind them and came to rest on the broken corner where most of the men were working. At least half the crew was perched on the scaffolding and parapet, yelling and clapping, though no sound reached him over the booming rapids. He had to laugh. He had been too intent on rescuing the skiff to notice he had an audience.

Pashenuro waved, signaling them to get back to work. "We tried to reach you sooner, sir, thinking we might help, but you were too fast for us."

The mooring rope tugged at Bak's hand, reminding him that his task was not yet over. The breeze blowing across his wet shoulders urged him not to tarry; night would soon be upon them.

He hastened to thank them for coming to his aid, added, "I'm too close to the rapids to attempt to raise the sail. I'll need this man's help… " He nodded at the man with the coiled rope, a lanky spearman named User. "… to walk the skiff up the channel as far as the landing. The rest of you can go back to your tasks. You're needed more inside the fortress than here."

Pashenuro and his companions hurried away. User secured his rope to the skiff and splashed knee-deep into the river. With Bak beside him, they waded upstream, boat in tow, stepping with care, probing the depths for hidden rocks or roots or cavities. They stumbled and slipped and once User would have fallen headlong if Bak had not caught him. The boat snagged on flooded bushes and rocks. A snake swam by. A pair of brownish geese skimmed the water's surface.

How many times Bak glanced at the rope in his hand, he had no idea, but suddenly he stopped, giving it all his attention. Much of the end was smooth and even, not frayed and ragged as it would have been if it had worn through. The chill that radiated from his spine had nothing to do with the fact that he was et from head to toe. Someone had cut part way through the rope, releasing the skiff. For what purpose he could not imagine. To keep him on the island? Or had a mistake been made? Had the knife been too sharp, cutting deeper into the fibers than intended? Had someone meant him to climb into the skiff and, before he had time to raise the sail, the rope would snap and he would be carried to his death in the rapids?

He plodded on, saying nothing to his companion. He saw no need to plant worry and fear in User's thoughts and therefore in the whole of Pashenuro's work crew, nor did he want word to spread far and wide that someone was trying to slay him. First, he thought, the warning had been issued: the man with the sling. Next a definite attempt on his life: the snake in his bed. And now this. Puemre's slayer had come a long way in only three days.

At the landing, Bak spotted a short length of rope hanging from the post where he had moored the skiff. He thanked User and sent him on his way, untied the bit of rope, and thr'hw it into the vessel. Before climbing in, he checked the boat thoroughly, looking for signs of tampering. The halyard, he discovered, was snagged in the block at the masthead, making the sail impossible to raise until the tangle was cleared. The rope could have snarled on its own, but he was too suspicious now even to consider the possibility. Finding nothing else amiss, he cast off, raised the sail, and headed back toward Iken, every sense alert for trouble. Not until he had passed the southern tip of the long island did he relax enough to give his full attention to the bit of rope he had thrown on board. As he expected, the end was smooth and even, with a clump of frayed fibers looking like the whiskers of a cat poking out of one strand.