Lauren Haney - Path of Shadows

“A worthy goal.” Bak formed another smile. “Not many men are eager to suffer the hardships of rough and solitary travel day after day.”

“When I travel alone, I’ll not suffer, that I vow.” Wensu glanced at the explorer with poorly concealed contempt.

“When I no longer need a man like User to show me the way,

I’ll take along enough men, animals, and supplies that I’ll suffer no less comfort than my father does when he goes on a hunting excursion into the desert west of Waset.”

User stared hard at the young man, then swung around and walked away. Wensu sputtered in impotent fury.

Acting as if he had noticed nothing amiss, Amonmose called out, “Ani!” He beckoned the short, rotund man watch ing the drovers break camp. “Come. You must meet the lieu tenant I spoke with last night.”

Ani, whose sole activity had been to hop from one spot to another, the better to peer at the men breaking camp, looked at Amonmose and at the nomads as if not sure where he was most needed. Flinging a last, reluctant look at the toiling men, he hastened to respond to the summons. User looked on from a few paces away, saying nothing, a faint but cynical smile on his lips.

While introductions were made, Bak studied the new ar rival. He looked as soft as well-risen bread dough, and his pale skin was burned a bright red, betraying a man unaccus tomed to the sun. Only his hands revealed a life of toil. They were callused and bore the pinkish scars of burning.

“Ani toils in a workshop in the royal house,” Amonmose said with open admiration. “He makes jewelry for our sover eign and the men and women she holds close within her heart.”

“I’ve a skill with precious metals and stones, yes, but I’m beginning to see how deficient I am in other skills.” The craftsman threw a humble, almost apologetic smile at User.

“After one day of walking beneath the cruel sun, after one night of sleeping on the ground and eating plain food cooked in a manner strange to me, I’ve come to realize how little I know of the hardships of life. I know nothing about the desert, about donkeys, about living beneath the sky. I’ll do my best to learn, but I see many a trial ahead of me.”

Why men such as Ani and Wensu, so obviously of the city, had chosen to travel so far from home, Bak could not imagine.

A sharp whistle drew Bak’s attention to the well. The don keys had drunk their fill and the nomad was leading his small herd toward User’s camp. Amonmose, Nebenkemet, Wensu, and Ani hurried to meet him, thinking to oversee the loading of their belongings, Bak assumed. The signal had been

Psuro’s, summoning Senna, Rona, and Nebre. The trio hur ried to the well to water the donkeys in Bak’s small string of animals.

“Other than Senna, do any of your men speak the tongue of the nomads?” User asked.

“One man tells me he can get by.”

“You’re fortunate.”

Bak did not like User’s ominous tone. “Are you hinting that Senna may abandon us, as some say he did Minnakht?”

“I know the nomads in this area hold him to blame. They would, since he isn’t one of them and Minnakht vanished while under his care. Do I personally think him guilty of wrongdoing? I’ve no idea.” User watched one of the drovers lift several bundles one after another, testing their weight to be sure none was too heavy for a donkey. The man who had watered the animals began to load them. “All I’m saying is that not many nomads speak the tongue of Kemet. I’ve learned a few words over the years, but not enough. If any thing were to happen to my guide and the drovers, I’d not lose my way. But should we need help, I doubt I could ex plain what we need.”

Bak could see the weakness troubled him. “Which man is your guide?”

“The one wearing the faded red leather kilt. Dedu is his name.”

Bak watched Dedu for a few moments. The guide, some years older than the drovers, toiled among them as an equal.

He liked that. It signified a man secure within himself. Thus far, Senna had helped with the donkeys but had offered no as sistance to Minmose. As if the many small household tasks were beneath him.

The sun rose fully above the ridge, sending long rays through the wispy branches of the tamarisks. A slight breeze blew the smoke from a makeshift hearth across the small en campment, carrying with it the odor of charred bread. A don key brayed; its rear hooves shot through the air as it tried to shake off its load.

One of the nomad drovers separated a gray donkey from the rest and led it across the sand to a spot twenty or so paces away from the trees and slightly farther from the well and

User’s camp. He stopped near a clump of bushes, spoke a few words in his own tongue, a murmur from so far away, and re peated himself in a louder voice. Receiving no answer, he shouted to User, “He sleeps, sir.”

“A man camped there through the night,” User explained.

“A stranger.” Scowling, he strode across the sand. “You’d think by this time, we’d have awakened the dead.”

Certain no man could have slept through a yell as loud as that of the drover, Bak hastened to catch up. Stopping with

User beside the nomad, he stood at the edge of a small shal low cavity in the sand on the downwind side of the bushes. A man lay flat on his stomach within the hollow, his face turned away, arms and legs in a line with his body. A water jar, a goatskin waterbag, a couple of baskets in which to carry sup plies, and a bow and quiver filled with arrows lay on the sand near him.

Too many flies were swarming around, Bak noticed, and the donkey was easing backward, pulling at the rope halter the drover held. He guessed the worst and muttered an oath, earning surprised glances from the two men beside him. “A stranger, you say?”

“He showed up at nightfall, watered his donkey and hob bled it with ours, and otherwise kept to himself.” User snorted. “Amonmose came out here and tried to strike up a conversation. You’ll have noticed how much he likes to prat tle. Well, he got nothing in return but a few grunts.”

The explorer was talking too much, a sure sign that he sensed something wrong.

Calling out to the man, User knelt beside him. He got no more of a response than the drover had. He clutched a shoul der, tried to shake him awake. Snapping out a sudden oath, he jerked his hand away and scrambled backwards. “He’s cold!”

Bak knelt where User had been. He waved off the flies buzzing around, laid a hand on the dead man’s shoulder, and felt the coolness of death. Giving himself no time for qualms, he eased backward and rolled the body onto its back. From the amount of stiffness, he guessed the man had been slain sometime early in the night, long before he and his Medjays had reached the well.

Clearly a man of Kemet, the dead man was about twenty five years of age, of medium height and build. Other than his large dark eyes, fully open and turned Bak’s way, his features were nondescript. His hair was dark and cut short. His deeply tanned body was well formed and his lower arms and wrists thick, like those of an archer. He wore a tunic, a knee-length kilt, and leather sandals. A thin gold chain encircled his neck and from it hung a golden amulet, the sign of life. The sheath tied to his belt was empty, the dagger missing.

“Is this Minnakht?” Bak asked.

“No.” User cleared a roughness from his throat, repeated.

“No. Minnakht is taller, not so plain, not so…” His voice tailed off and he shook his head. “No.”

The flies began to settle around an encrusted wound below the dead man’s breastbone. His life’s blood had flowed onto the thin woven mat beneath him, leaving a large red-brown stain. The weapon-probably his own dagger-had been withdrawn and carried off. The sand around him had been thoroughly churned up, making it too soft to hold footprints.