Lauren Haney: A Vile Justice

Catching his breath and at the same time scrambling to his knees, he looked upward. Khawet stood at the top of the staircase, watching him. Slowly, deliberately, she raised a sling and lobbed a stone at him. Snarling an oath, he swung the shield up, deflecting the missile. When next he looked, she was gone.

Holding the cowhide barrier before him, he rose to his feet and took a hasty glance around, evaluating his position. He stood about halfway up the stairs, out in the open with no available shelter and the enemy above. The boulder had lodged between two others at the edge of a field of young melon plants. His spear lay at the bottom of the steps, its point glinting in the sun.

"Are you alright, sir?" Kasaya, heading upward as fast as the damaged steps would allow.

"I'm fine. Now get off those stairs! If Khawet descends this hill by another route, I want you in a position to cut her off."

"Yes, sir." The Medjay lowered his head and plodded down, sulking, Bak suspected.

Preferring to keep his dagger hand free, Bak switched the shield back to his left hand, reviving the ache in his shoulder. He stepped over the low wall and, muttering a quick prayer to the lord Amon, headed up the stairway once again. The smudged sand marking the boulder's path impressed upon him how important it was that he keep a wary eye on the terrace as well as watch his feet. In spite of the added caution, his divided attention, he climbed steadily.

He passed the highest point he had reached before. As if she had been monitoring his progress, Khawet appeared above, sling loaded, pouch of rocks slung over her shoulder.

He wondered if she had set that spot as his upper limit and planned not to allow him to advance beyond.

She stood in the open, taunting his inability to get at her, and hurled a rock at him. He swung the shield up. The missile struck hard, jolting his arm, setting his shoulder afire, and dropped into the sand at his feet. He tried to scoop it up, thinking to hurl it back, but the stone rolled away to the next lower step. She shot off another rock and another and another, launching them as fast and hard as she could, casting the missiles with uncommon accuracy and a rare strength for a woman.

Unable to retaliate, refusing to retreat, he trod on up the stairs, parrying the stones with his shield, thinking to unnerve her with a steady pace. The sling could be a deadly weapon. in the hands of an experienced warrior. As Khawet was proving herself to be.

Suddenly she turned and darted north along the terrace. He was surprised to see how close he was to the top, with only seven or eight more steps to climb. She must have emptied her pouch of stones. Or had she chosen to run rather than face him, fearing his greater strength and weight? He staved off the temptation to race upward, risking a fall, and continued to climb with as much care as before. Never once did he let down his guard lest she return with another, deadlier weapon. Seeing nothing, hearing no sound, he stepped onto the terrace. There he found the lever she had used to shift the heavy boulder. Other than that, no sign of her remained.

The slope of the hill had been cut away, he saw, providing a vertical surface for the facades of a lengthy row of tombs dug deep into the rock. A broad walkway edged with a kneehigh parapet follgwed the curve of the hill, offering a comfortable approach to these houses of eternity. He eyed the line of entryways, wondering which, if any, sheltered Khawet. Certainly not the two atop the southern staircases, for he had seen her run away from them. He scowled at the gaping portals, black rectangles that warned of the depth of darkness inside. How was he to find her without a torch?

He strode north along the sunlit terrace, peering into tombs whose doors had long ago vanished and whose contents had been desecrated and robbed, passing others whose entrances were blocked by stone or brick walls that looked untouched but had probably been defiled like the rest. On mounds of debris before several entrances, he saw fragments of bone and linen and wood, the residue of ancient robberies. These sepulchers, he assumed, were very old, dating to a time when Abu stood on the threshold of the frontier and Wawat was a place to explore and conquer, not settle and exploit as at present.

If he remembered accurately an early conversation with Djehuty, when the governor had laid claim to a long and esteemed ancestry, he had spoken of a direct line as far back as Kheperkare Senwosret, who had ruled many generations after these early kings. True, the governor had spoken with longing of a more ancient lineage, but even he had not dared press the claim as fact.

Bak had no idea what Khawet's purpose was in coming to this burial place, but if she took her heritage as seriously as Djehuty did, she would waste no time in the older tombs. She would go to the one closest to her heart.

Beyond an entrance half buried in windblown sand he approached a trio of open portals. The faint odor of incense teased his nostrils, then drifted away. Every sense suddenly alert, he crept to the nearest and peered down a short, narrow passage. A shaft of light, vague and indistinct, reached from the depths of the tomb toward the entry to blend with the faint illumination from outside. The smell of incense was stronger here, wafting out through the portal.

Bak slipped his dagger from its sheath, took a deep but quiet breath, and sidled through the passage, keeping his back to the wall. At the end, he peeked into a rectangular chamber, its ceiling supported by six square columns. Nothing stirred in the near-dark hall. A few silent steps took him to a handsome granite offering table laden with a braised pigeon, onions, cucumbers, and dates, along with a bouquet of white lilies and a pottery bowl holding the burning incense. The perfumed smoke was cloying, overwhelming the sweeter odor of the flowers and the tantalizing scent of the bird.

The vague light drew him up a low flight of steps at the rear of the hall and into a corridor where six niches, three on either side, framed rock-cut, painted figures of the deceased as one with Osiris, the lord of the netherworld. In the gloom, deep shadows hovered around the dark, shrouded figures. They and the heavy smell of incense made the corridor seem a passageway to death. Bak crept along on silent feet, chilled by the thought.

He paused at the end of the corridor, where the light was brighter. In the chamber ahead, he heard the faint whisper of a burning torch and sensed the presence of another individual. Khawet, he felt sure. Dagger in hand, he held the shield before him and took a cautious step forward. He found himself in a room too small for the four square columns that provided surfaces for drawings of the deceased, figures illuminated by the leaping flame of a torch. Khawet stepped into view at the rear, holding the light aloft, her back to a niche containing lightly carved paintings of a man and his family, her ancestors Bak assumed.

"Stay where you are, Lieutenant. I'll not let you lay hands on me." The long-handled torch, the kind carried by town guards assigned to night patrol, burned close to the ceiling. The angle of light turned the planes of her face hard and unyielding, matching her voice.

"You can't escape, mistress Khawet."

"I've done nothing worthy of condemnation. I've simply been a tool of the lady Maat, balancing the scales of justice." Her smile turned smug, irritating. "As you are."

"I've not spent the past days tracking you down only to let you slip through my fingers."

"You've earned a reward of sorts, that I concede." Her eyes flashed determination. "But you'll not have it at my expense."

He stepped forward, between the first pair of columns. She swung the torch down, pointing the flame along the central aisle, holding him off. He had to overpower her, but how? The chamber was so small and the columns were so large, there was not much room to maneuver. Even his spear would have been impossible to use in so confined a space.