Lauren Haney - The Right Hand of Amon

"Perfect." Bak walked to the edge of the building and looked down on a grayish striped cat sprawled in the shade of a doorway, suckling five fuzzy kittens not yet old enough to see. He and the other officers had identified one precaution that would avert the need for many of the others, but they needed Kenamon's consent to break a religious convention. They had been skirting around the issue since they had gathered in Woser's office, and Bak still wasn't sure how best to ask. "I doubt the prince is in danger…" His eyes darted toward Imsiba. "… but you must guard him well, you and our men."

Imsiba had seldom looked so somber. "We'll stay with the child through all the hours of day and night, my friend. He'll never be left alone."

"It's Amon-Psaro I'm worried about," Woser grumbled, careful not to look at Kenamon. "We've taken every precaution, yet gaps remain in our security."

"As there always will be unless…" Nebseny let his voice tail off and glanced at Bak, dropping the burden fully onto his shoulders.

Bak could avoid the issue no longer. "Amon-Psaro will be safe in the island fortress. We've nothing to worry about there. The weak link in our chain of defense-and, believe me, my uncle, it's very weak-is the journey from the island to the harbor and the march through the city to the temple. Back and forth day after day for as long as the prince is ill, the king's life will be at risk."

Kenamon's mouth tightened. "What are you asking of me?"

From the resolute look on the old man's face, Bak could tell he had already guessed what the officers wanted. "Will you allow us to build a shrine on the island and house the lord Amon there?" His voice grew passionate with conviction. "I beg you, my uncle, to agree. Then the king and his son can be together day and night, safe from threat, without the need for the twice-daily march along streets difficult if not impossible to secure."

The elderly priest, his face grave, shook his head. But instead of voicing an immediate rejection, he clasped his hands behind his back and paced the length of the rooftop, his head bowed in thought.

A snarl sounded in the street below. Bak glanced around, saw an orange tom skulking up the lane toward the striped cat and her helpless kittens. She faced him, her back arched, the fur on her tail standing on end, snarling to protect her brood. The tom crept on undeterred, his tail whipping back and forth, bent on stealing one of the tiny, blind creatures. Bak scooped up the nearest object to hand, a stone spindle, and flung it at the wall above the tom's head. He leaped upward, twisting around in midair, and scooted away.

"I'm sorry, my son." Kenamon, his face grim and unhappy, patted Bak's shoulder as he would a favored puppy. "The lord Amon must remain in the mansion of Hathor."

Why? Bak wanted to ask. Is a shrine not good enough now that he's a great and mighty god? "We'll recruit the most accomplished carpenter in Iken to build it and the most talented goldsmith to sheathe it. Set up in a private corner, the lord Amon will be safe and well protected from man and beast and the elements. He'll be more comfortable there, for all the fortress will be his, not one small room in a temple he must share."

Kenamon gave him a fond smile. "You speak with a golden tongue, my boy, but I was told by the first prophet himself that the god must dwell with the lady Hathor." Muttering a curse under his breath, Bak glanced at the other officers and Imsiba. Woser looked disgusted, the Medjay and Nebseny helpless to come up with a better idea. He knelt at the edge of the roof and stared into the lane below, giving himself time to think. There had to be a way around that order. The kittens were alone, he noticed, and only three remained. Where was the mother? Had the tom sneaked back to steal the other two while he looked away?

All rules could be broken. One simply had to find a way where no blame would fall on anyone's shoulders. The mother cat trotted out of the shadows of the house, lifted a kitten by the nape of the neck, and pattered back inside. She was moving her litter to a new and safer place.

A broad smile flashed across his face, and he offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lady Bast, the cat goddess. "What if we also built a shrine on the island for the lady Harbor?" He picked up another spindle, this one broken, and glanced often along the lane, making sure the tom did not return to stalk his innocent and now-unprotected prey. "A new mansion it would be, but of modest proportions. Would you then agree to move the lord Amon?"

Imsiba and the other officers, trying hard not to laugh at so brazen an idea, stared at Kenamon, willing him to agree. The priest, his mouth twitching with stifled humor, walked to the edge of the roof and looked into the lane. The mother cat stalked out of the house and caught up another kitten. Kenamon burst into laughter. "Not even the first prophet himself could argue with so fortunate an intervention by the lady Bast."

Pashenuro rolled his eyes skyward. "First you give us another day so we need not push so hard, and now you ask us to build a shrine. Will this task never end?"

Bak laughed at the Medjay's hangdog expression. "You should be overjoyed-as I am-that we're getting off so easy. Once this fortress is habitable and Amon-Psaro in residence with the lord Amon, most of our worries for his safety will be over."

"We'll be toiling far into the night, I fear."

Bak sobered, fully aware of the enormous responsibility he had laid on Pashenuro's shoulders. "Woser is even now explaining the task to a carpenter and a goldsmith. Minnakht is searching out the finest woods in the city, and Nebseny is raiding the treasury for gold. All you have to do is provide a firm and flat foundation in the most sheltered comer of this fortress."

Their eyes automatically followed the little drifts of fine sand blowing across the open floor. With the northern wall repaired, that end was the least touched by the breeze.

After they had decided where best to situate the shrine, they walked around the walls, examining the finished work and discussing the effort yet to be made. The floor had been cleaned from one end to the other, the debris hauled away. A half dozen men were smoothing rough spots and filling holes. Two men were trimming bushes and cutting branches that hung too low. Other than the cook and his helpers, the rest of the men were scattered over the long, western wall, hanging from scaffolding, suspended from ropes, standing on ladders. They laughed and joked, chiding each other, Pashenuro, even Bak. They were men enjoying a job they would soon see over and done with, a job to be proud of and one never to be repeated.

Bak was delighted with the men and their effort, and he told them so. As for Pashenuro, he made a silent vow to plead his case to Commandant Thuty as soon as they returned to Buhen, asking that the Medjay be promoted to sergeant.

"I thought you should be one of the first to know." Bak, bursting with self-satisfaction, raised his drinking bowl to Inyotef. "As the man responsible for ferrying Amon-Psaro across the river day after day, you'd have been at his beck and call throughout his stay in Iken."

A raucous yell exploded from a rough circle of sailors and soldiers sitting on the floor of Sennufer's house of pleasure, gambling with knucklebones. Laughter rippled through the group. Someone banged his fists on a wooden stool, beating out a hasty tattoo. A woman's giggle sounded behind ateavy curtain drawn across the door to the brewing room.

Inyotef gave the gamblers a distracted glance. "I owe you another jar of beer, it seems."

Bak picked up his jar, sloshed it around, and found its contents wanting. Holding it high, he signaled Sennufer to bring more. "Having the god and the king in one place is more convenient for everyone-and safer."