Lauren Haney - A Vile Justice

Bak strode away, cursing the day the vizier had suggested he come to Abu. Why were people always so unwilling to do what was best for them?

"He's worked himself into such a state he can keep no food in his stomach. I didn't want to leave him, but how could I refuse mistress Khawet? Her days are already too long and filled to the brim. So I went to the market for her." Amonhotep held out a basket from which several bundles of dried herbs protruded. Beneath lay linen-wrapped packets containing crushed herbs and potions. "Actually, I didn't mind. I needed a reprieve, as she, said."

Bak had intercepted the aide at the back gate opening onto the narrow lane behind the governor's compound. "She told me he was sick, very sick."

"He is, but the illness is of his own making, I'm sure." "If that's the case, her broth is unlikely to settle his stomach enough for me to speak to him."

"I'll see that you do." The aide's voice was firm, the words a promise.

"Do you have any idea why he'd order Nenu to slay me?" "It makes no sense." Amonhotep stared down the lane at a young woman heavy with child, dragging a naked boy of three or four years along behind her. The child was dirty, his face tear-stained, his arm stretched as high as it would go. "I was surprised when he told me to remove the guard from his post at Nebmose's villa so he could use him to run errands. Until then, I didn't know he knew the man."

"Nenu admired Senmut, the sergeant who was slain. And Senmut was close to Djehuty."

Amonhotep nodded, understanding the tie. "What of the soldier who slew Nenu?"

"We took him to the garrison." A whine drew Bak's attention to the woman and child, who rounded the corner at the end of the block and walked out of sight. "He thought Nenu was attacking me, trying to escape. An honest mistake, but to use his weapon without thought…" Bak shook his head in disgust. "Antef will deal with him."

"I expect soon to see him in fhe audience hall." Amonhotep gave a cynical snort. "If Djehuty can ever tear himself out of bed. Or if he survives the next two days."

He'll survive, Bak thought grimly, if 1 have to sit beside his bed and guard him myself. "When can I talk to him?" "After midday." The aide gave Bak a humorless smile. "I think it best not to warn him that you'll be coming, but I'll need time to pacify mistress Khawet."

Bak sat on the bench at the back of Nebmose's villa, elbows on knees, and buried his face in his hands. His throat was sore and scratchy. A dull pain throbbed in his shoulder. He was tired, discouraged, at a loss as to where to turn next. Nenu alive might have revealed a path to the truth. Nenu dead raised a new set of difficulties.

He could not imagine why Djehuty had ordered the guard to slay him. Could he have misunderstood the dying man's meaning? No. Only a long stretch of the imagination could interpret the words in any other way. The governor wanted him dead. If the past was any indication of the future, he might never reveal the reason. So far, Bak had had no luck in prying the truth from him. How could he believe another interview would be more productive?

He would try again, and again and again if need be, but in the meantime he had to look elsewhere.

Raising his head, he stretched out his legs and leaned back against the wall, letting inactivity heal his battered body and the breeze soothe his troubled soul. He thought of all he had learned about the five deaths: Nakht, Montu, Senmut, Dedi, and Hatnofer. Each had been slain in the light of day and, with the probable exception of Dedi, slain by a horse frenzied by an unknown method, each had been killed at close range while facing, the slayer. Which meant he was someone known and trusted by all. Djehuty? No, his fear was real, attesting better to his innocence than witnesses swearing he was elsewhere at every slaying. Who else then? All who held lofty positions in the villa would have been trusted. If Nenu was to be believed, and Bak did believe him, he had had nothing to do with the murders. He had known he was dying, and with his heart so soon to be weighed against the feather of truth, he dared not lie. Amonhotep, Simut, and Antef had each been far away during the time of at least one slaying, but the whereabouts of the others remained unknown. He had been lax in that respect, allowing himself to be distracted when he should have followed through to the end. This he vowed to do.

The tie that had bound the victims together had been the fateful storm five years earlier. Other than Amonhotep, who had wandered the burning sands alone, all the survivors had behaved in a despicable fashion. Bak thought a moment, revised the notion. The survivors who had sheltered in the cave with User had behaved abominably. Djehuty and Min had not been among them. They had been elsewhere, no one knowing where or what they had done to survive. This, Bak felt certain, was the key to the governor's secret.

Sergeant Min was gone, probably slain, his lips sealed forever. He may have confided in his friend Senmut or, more likely, in mistress Hatnofer, his lover. They, too, were dead. Djehuty alone could offer enlightenment, and he refused to speak.

Is that all I've learned in close on a week? Bak asked himself. Am I no nearer to the slayer today than I was yesterday or the day before or the day before that? How can I hope to save Djehuty in less than two days if 1 can uncover no new answers?

A thought reared its ugly head, one so unworthy he squashed it like ft insect: the southernmost province of Kemet would be a better place to live if its present governor were dead.

Frustrated, he stood up and strode to the stable. An orange cat lay stretched across the doorway in the sun, washing its face. He stepped over the creature and walked inside. The structure was as devoid of life as when last he had seen it, with a few bits of straw and the faint scent of manure to remind him of its proper function. He envied Nebmosewhoever he had been-and he well understood Ineni's resentment at not being allowed to keep horses here. Djehuty's decision to bar animals from the stable and reserve the house for illustrious guests seemed odd. Why had he not given the property to his married son and daughter?

Bak left the stable and, driven by curiosity more than purpose, entered the house. Passing the rooms used for storage, he walked through the high-ceilinged, bright-painted hall and down the corridor to the master's suite, his footsteps loud in the silence. He glanced around the private reception room with its elegant furnishings, decorative wall hangings, and senet game ready for play. He peered into the two small bedchambers, noting the neatly folded sleeping pallets, and ambled around the larger bedchamber that led to the bath where Hatnofer had been slain. Here, the bed was made and toilet articles laid out. A bowl of dried flowers sat on a wooden chest. Not a speck of dust marred any surface. If not for the silence, he might have thought these rooms inhabited. By rights, Khawet and Ineni should have occupied them, filling them with laughter and children, instead of a series of noted guests who passed through in haste.

He strode to the doorway, intending to leave, but his steps faltered at the threshold. Troubled, not sure why, he turned around to study the room. It looked much as it had when first he had seen it, a guest chamber ready for occupancy. But he, the intended guest, had spurned the room, and no other visitor was expected. Why were the linens still in place when normally they would be stowed away, protected from dust, insects, intruding birds, and small animals? — Khawet must have forgotten. She had proven herself a superb mistress of a demanding household. She surely could be forgiven this one lapse.

A new thought came to him, a fresh possibility. One he swept aside as nonsense. Another idea loomed larger, more promising. Vowing to return to the first notion if need be, he left the bedchamber and wandered throughout the house, seeing the building as the hollow shell it was, getting a sense of the comfortable home it once had been.