Lauren Haney - Path of Shadows

Kubban of a Lieutenant Bak posted at Buhen, standing at the head of a company of Medjay police. He was a man of hon esty and decency, so they said, one highly respected by all who obeyed the lady Maat and greatly feared by those who didn’t. One who never failed to snare the man he sought.”

Bak muttered an oath. The gods were surely conspiring against him. What were the odds that he would encounter a man who knew him-not by sight but by reputation-in this sparsely inhabited wilderness? He smiled in spite of himself at the unlikely coincidence. “I’ve come into the Eastern

Desert in search of Minnakht. I think it best we leave it at that.”

“You can depend upon me to remain mute.”

Bak nodded, accepting the pledge, praying the merchant would keep his word. “You mentioned yesterday that some one told you another young man had disappeared in this desert.”

“So said a merchant in Kaine, yes.”

“Did he offer any details?” With the point of his spear, Bak probed the sand around a bush near the path of the donkey.

“Like Minnakht, he was an explorer,” Amonmose said. “I don’t recall hearing his name, but the merchant had an idea that he knew the desert well.”

“He didn’t come out here alone, did he?”

“Evidently not. He told the merchant and other men in

Kaine that he had a guide, a man he planned to meet at the edge of the desert. A nomad, they all assumed, but no one ever saw him. He set out by himself one morning, heading north. Who the guide was and whether or not they met re mains a mystery to this day. A puzzle yet to be solved.”

They reached the well soon after midday. There they stopped to rest in the narrow slice of shade cast by steep and high wadi walls. The well, a hundred or so paces away in the floor of the ancient watercourse, was surrounded by a dry stone wall. How that wall would hold up to one of the rare flash floods, Bak had no idea.

While seeing to the setting up of his camp, he noticed

Nebenkemet helping the drovers unload the donkeys of

User’s caravan farther down the wadi. The shade was too skimpy to share with the animals, so they stood in the sun, meekly allowing the men to relieve them of their burdens.

Though the nomads spoke a different tongue, the burly car penter seemed to communicate well enough with them, us ing hand signals and other gestures easy to understand. Did he choose their company because he felt uncomfortable with men of a more lofty status? Or did he simply prefer to keep busy, and to help with the loading and unloading was one of the few ways to do so?

After ensuring that his own animals were cared for, Bak walked down the wadi. As he approached Nebenkemet, the carpenter greeted him with a grunt and went on about his task. Struck dumb by the officer’s presence, the drovers toiled on, watching with wary eyes.

“It’s good of you to help with this task,” Bak said.

Nebenkemet devoted his full attention to the water jar he lifted off the donkey. Holding it with ease, betraying the fact that it was empty, he set it beside the jar which had hung on the opposite side of the animal. “I’ve nothing better to do.”

“Neither Ani nor Wensu is helping.”

“Those two!” The carpenter laughed harshly. “Wensu wouldn’t lift a hand to feed himself if he didn’t have to, and

Ani wouldn’t know how.”

“Have you noticed the scars on Ani’s hands? He didn’t get them by spending his days in idleness.”

The carpenter lifted from the donkey’s back the wooden frame from which the jars had been suspended and the soft pad beneath. “I’ve seen them.”

Bak noted the edge of contempt in his voice. “You don’t believe a man who creates beautiful jewelry can toil as hard and long as a carpenter?”

Nebenkemet did not deign to respond.

Watching him knead the donkey’s shoulders where the pad had rested, Bak wondered how a man so reluctant to speak would fare with a small group of fishermen dwelling in an isolated camp on the shore of the Eastern Sea. Were they gar rulous men who would resent his silence, or taciturn men who would welcome his failure to speak?

“Where did you practice your trade, Nebenkemet?”

The carpenter stared at Bak, saying nothing, as if trying to decide whether or not he should answer. “I toiled at a ship yard in Mennufer.”

Rough work among rough men, so Bak had been told. He had never seen the shipyards, but he doubted the building of ships could account for all the scars on the carpenter’s hands and lower arms, and those on the back of his legs looked like the marks of a whip. Perhaps he had failed to obey a hard taskmaster. Or maybe he was a man who became aggressive when besotted and involved himself in numerous brawls.

Nebenkemet released the donkey and let it trot to the well, where a drover was drawing water and pouring it into a deep, wide-mouthed bowl buried almost to the neck in the sand so thirsty animals would not tip it over. Another donkey was al ready drinking, so the new arrival had to wait. Bak caught the halter of the nearest laden donkey and drew it close. As the carpenter lifted a jar from its back, Bak removed the con tainer from the opposite side. The two men’s eyes met across the animal’s back. Nebenkemet looked quickly away, as if he feared his eyes were windows through which Bak might read his thoughts.

If only such were the case, Bak thought. “Where will you get building materials for use at the fishing camp?” he asked, thinking a less personal question might open a path through the man’s defenses. “I’ve been told that the coastline all along the Eastern Sea is as barren as these desert wadis.”

“Amonmose will see that I get whatever I need for the boat. As for the huts, I’ll build them of stone.”

Bak glanced at the high walls of the wadi, at its floor lit tered with fallen boulders and rocks, and gave the carpenter a wry smile. “There’ll be no shortage of stone, I’ll warrant.”

A suspicion of a smile touched Nebenkemet’s face, but again he failed to pursue the opening Bak had provided.

“Do you expect the tasks to keep you long at the fishing camp?”

Nebenkemet shrugged as if indifferent.

Bak was becoming irritated. Normally a man would at least participate to some extent in a conversation. Talking to this man was like talking to a tree. “Did you ever meet Min nakht? Speak with him?”

Rather than the negative Bak expected, Nebenkemet said,

“Amonmose did all the talking. I watched and listened.”

“You were toiling for Amonmose even then?” Bak asked, surprised.

“His wife wanted a shrine in her garden. I built it.”

That Amonmose would ask a man he knew and trusted rather than a stranger to accompany him on a hazardous jour ney such as this made sense. That the merchant would take a tough-looking man with him when searching through the rough houses of pleasure along the waterfront of Waset made more sense. “What was your impression of Minnakht?”

“He was a man whose dreams outstripped reality.”

Bak was intrigued that a man of no learning should have seen something in the explorer that the worldly Amonmose had missed. “In what way?” he asked, openly curious.

“He talked of this desert as if the future of the land of Kemet lay here. As if all good things could be found if a man would but seek them out. His enthusiasm knew no bounds.”

Nebenkemet eyed the land around him with a contemptuous scowl. “He may’ve been right in thinking that here can be found gold and precious stones. What he never once consid ered was how hard won they’ll be.”

The long speech was a measure of the craftsman’s skepti cism, Bak felt sure, but he also sensed a depth of feeling he could not account for. “User believes there’s something out here to be found.”