Lauren Haney - The Right Hand of Amon

Aset bowed her head, covering her face with her hands. "The sentries must've seen you there," Bak said. Nebseny nodded, his eyes on his betrothed, distracted by what to him was far more important than an alibi. Hesitantly, he went to the girl and took her in his arms. "Don't cry, my beloved. Your servant Meret has since come to me. She's assured me the tales were untrue."

Aset turned her face into his breast and clung to him. Woser, watching the pair with open relief and a weary satisfaction, must have felt Bak's scrutiny. He looked up at the man who had so recently bedeviled him and offered a tentative smile. "I owe you more than answers, Lieutenant. How best can I help?"

"The prince's health seemed better while they camped through the night, but soon after the caravan set off this morning, he had another attack." The courier, a short, wiry young man, stood at rigid attention, repeating the message he had been given. Sweat trickled down his face, making runnels in the dust clinging to his cheeks. "King AmonPsaro looked forward to reaching Iken by nightfall. He was most disappointed at the need to break the journey so close and yet so far away."

Bak scowled, trying to look disappointed, hiding the relief he felt at his own reprieve and that of the men toiling on the island fortress. Kenamon, he feared, would worry himself sick at the delay in seeing his patient, but almost everyone else in Iken would welcome the respite.

Woser, his face solemn, looked south across the desert, as if far in the hazy distance he could see the Kushite encampment. A puff of wind drove a dust devil up the narrow walkway along the battlements and whipped a dry and torn leaf over the parapet.

They stood atop the massive outer wall of the fortress. As Bak had preferred to discuss the threat on Amon-Psaro's life in more privacy than the commander's residence provided, Woser had suggested the younger officer accompany him on one of his periodic surprise inspections of the sentries. Bak had readily agreed, but if he had known how hot and thick the air had become, he would have suggested a walk along the river instead.

"You must tell King Amon-Psaro that my heart is filled with disappointment," Woser said to the courier. "I'd hoped to see him in Iken today. However, as the prince's health is all-important, I understand the need to postpone his arrival. I'll make haste to the lord Amon and offer my heartfelt prayer that the child will feel more like traveling tomorrow."

"Spoken like a true diplomat." Bak grinned after the courier had hurried away.

Woser gave him a quick smile. "Too many years on the frontier, greeting the envoys of kings and queens, have made my tongue as oily as that of a palace hanger-on."

His eyes darted toward an approaching sentry, the last he had to inspect, a tough-looking man of close to forty years burned a crisp brown from many years in the sun. The man halted before his commander and stood at attention, his eyes fixed on some far-off point. Looking stern and competent, Woser examined clothing, weapons, and physical well-being.

While Bak waited, he rested his elbows on the thick mudbrick wall and looked out across the desert. The tawny plain stretched as far as the eye could see, its sandy blanket torn here and there by dark ridges and knolls of protruding granite. The stiff westerly breeze stirred the desert surface, filling the air with fine sand, coloring the sky a pale yellow and cloaking the sun with haze. The distinction between earth and sky was lost in the distance, where individual features blended and blurred. A sweaty slick of fine dust coated Bak's body and he could taste the desert on his tongue, minute bits of parched and stale rock carried on the wind from far-off lands. His wrists itched beneath the wide bead bracelets he wore. He yearned for a swim, and mercifully he might now have the time.

The sentry strode on, and Woser joined Bak at the wall. "I like to believe nothing can pass by me unseen in this garrison." His face was shadowed with worry and self-reproach. "How did I fail to see a plot against AmonPsaro?"

Bak eyed him with something less than sympathy. "Did you actually tell Huy and your other officers to stand in my way?"

Woser had the grace to flush. "I made it clear I thought the slayer had done us all a favor. I went no further." "In other words, you made it easy for them to justify their failure to help, their unwillingness." Bak heard the accusation in his voice, knew he must drop the matter or risk alienating once again an officer whose cooperation he badly needed.

"How many men do you believe are involved?" Woser asked.

"One, if the mute child's sketches are to be believed. And I'm more inclined than ever to think them true." Bak could not prevent himself from adding, "Especially now that I've verified your alibi and Nebseny's and know for a fact you're both innocent. The idea of a conspiracy has always troubled me."

Woser turned away, his shoulders hunched, his hands locked behind his buttocks, and strode the few paces up the walkway to the corner tower. Bak stared at the commander's back, suddenly doubting himself, wondering how one man alone could hope to slay a king, a man always surrounded by guards and lackeys. Could I be mistaken? he wondered. Did I sort out one conspiracy of silence, leaving another yet to be found?

Woser strode back, his expression unhappy yet resolute. "I've known my staff officers for many years, Lieutenant, and I call each and every man my friend. But if you wish, I'll give you a private place and send them to you one by one. I give you leave to ask them what you will. Use the cudgel if you must."

Any doubts Bak might have had about the commander vanished altogether. "With Amon-Psaro's caravan stalled in the desert, I've a day's reprieve. Perhaps the gods. will smile on me and I can narrow my suspects to one before he marches into Iken. If not, I fear I'll have to accept your offer."

"Amon-Psaro should never set foot inside these walls." Bak spoke as if voicing the thought would make it a real possibility. "There are too many rooftops, too many unoccupied and ruined buildings."

Standing halfway up the open stairway that connected the commander's residence with the battlements, he scowled at the city laid out below, a geometric patchwork of white rooftops, narrow sun-struck streets, and small, shadowy courtyards. Several of the blocks looked as if a gigantic mouse had nibbled away random chunks of mudbrick and plaster, leaving a broken wall here and a collapsed roof there. Heat radiated from the flat white roof below him, drying the beads of sweat forming on his flesh. The stench of the watery depths wafted from a nearby rooftop, where a neighbor's morning catch of fish had been laid out to dry.

Kenamon, standing at the base of the stairs with Woser, Imsiba, and Nebseny, shaded his eyes with his hand and studied the tall citadel wall looming over the mansion of Hathor and the small figure of a sentry patrolling the battlements above the temple. "The walkways atop those walls bother me," he said, apprehension turning his voice querulous. "They look an ideal place from which to fire off a quiverful of arrows."

"None but the most reliable men will patrol the battle ments." Woser's face was set, determined. "He'll not be threatened from that quarter, I can assure you."

Bak plunged down the stairway to the roof. "You'd do well to station a few archers up there," he told Nebseny, "men with stout arms and a long reach. Men you'd trust with your life."

The young officer flushed, not yet accustomed to the sudden change in his attitude toward Bak, or Bak's toward him. "I've just the men: twenty archers and a sergeant newly arrived from the faraway land of Naharin. You can be sure they've no grudge against the Kushite king."