Lauren Haney - Path of Shadows

Minnakht stopped twenty paces from the closest building.

“You go ahead, Lieutenant. Make sure this place is safe.”

Bak barked out a humorless laugh. “You’d sacrifice your mother if you thought it to your advantage. Would you not,

Ahmose?”

The man who called himself Minnakht stiffened. “What?”

“Ahmose. Is that not your name?”

“You’ve lost your wits.”

Bak stepped away from the explorer, as did Psuro. Out of arm’s reach. The grim expression on their faces told truer than words how serious they were-and how unlikely they were to believe any denial.

Minnakht-or Ahmose-swung toward the sailors, the least wary and poorest trained of his guards. He flailed out at one man, shouldered the other aside, and began to run.

Bak, who had expected no less, raced after him, with

Psuro, Nebre, and the sailors fanning out behind. Suddenly twenty or more men burst from behind the nearest building.

Ahmose veered sharply away. Bak closed in on him, leaped at him, and with a flying tackle, pulled him to the ground. His prisoner tried to kick himself free and scramble away, but

Psuro grabbed an arm, jerked him to his knees, and placed his spear point to his breast.

The men who had appeared from behind the building swept forward, led by Nefertem and User. The group in cluded Imset, the members of User’s party, and more than a dozen nomads. They encircled Bak, his men, and his prisoner.

“You vowed to bring Minnakht,” Nefertem said, glower ing. “This is not my friend.”

“He’s not the man I knew,” User seconded the opinion.

“Who is he?”

“I couldn’t bring Minnakht, Nefertem. I fear he’s dead. I brought instead the man who took his life.” Bak grabbed a handful of hair and forced the captive to raise his chin so all could see his face. “His name is Ahmose. Like Minnakht, he explored the Eastern Desert-but farther north in the area where Senna grew to manhood. Senna was his guide and a longtime friend, but he slew him anyway, fearing I’d force the truth from him. I believe he also claimed to be Min nakht’s friend. When the pretense failed, he took his life while trying to force him to reveal the location of the gold he believed he’d found.”

The nomad chieftain, his mouth tight with anger, glared at the prisoner, then drew his hand back and slapped him so hard the crack of the blow echoed across the valley.

“You’re a dead man, Ahmose. You know that, don’t you?”

Bak, seated on a large rock in front of the well, had long ago lost patience with his prisoner, who refused to say a word.

Nefertem’s slap had not only raised four elongated red welts on Ahmose’s cheek, but had sealed his lips. “Whether you re main here with the nomads or whether we take you back to the land of Kemet, your fate rests in the hands of the lady

Maat. She’s not a forgiving goddess.”

“Nor am I a merciful man.” Nefertem, who had been sit ting on a low stool, looking on in silence, rose to his feet to tower over the man seated on the sand, his hands tied behind his back. “You risked death for what, you swine? For a faint hope of wealth? For gold you couldn’t find but thought to steal?” The nomad hissed between his teeth, the sound of a snake preparing to strike.

Ahmose shrank back but remained mute.

User, perched on three mudbricks stacked to form a seat, pulled a stick from the smoldering hearth over which a gazelle cooked, and prodded the fire to make it burn hotter.

The Medjays, the men of User’s party, and the nomads sat on the ground, forming a half circle around them. The dogs, which had returned in ones and twos, lay in a loose group behind the men, looking on like additional witnesses. The family who dwelt in the oasis sat in front of their house, watching. The men of Kemet were offering various ways of breaking the prisoner’s silence, each more disagreeable than the one before. A young nomad who could speak the tongue of Kemet continually translated for his brethren, who built on the suggestions with ideas of their own.

User rotated the stick, examining its fiery tip. “Dedu was my friend. A good friend. You didn’t just take his life. You left him for carrion.” A calculated look settled on the ex plorer’s face and he shifted his gaze to the prisoner. “I say we blind this snake and turn him loose in this barren land with no water or food.”

A murmur of agreement swept through the onlookers. A donkey brayed, as if offering its consent.

“No!” Ahmose scrambled back, his horrified eyes locked on the stick. “You must take me to Kemet, Lieutenant. My offenses must be weighed on the scales of justice, not left in the hands of these desert swine.”

“Ah,” Nefertem said, dropping onto his stool. “He can talk.”

Flinging User a hasty look of thanks, Bak shoved himself back against the wall that enclosed the well, startling a lizard that darted across the hot sand to the shelter of a broad-leafed vine. “Are we correct in believing Minnakht died rather than tell you of the gold you sought?”

Ahmose tore his eyes from the stick User continued to toy with. “I’ve searched the Eastern Desert for a lifetime, think ing to become a wealthy man. I know this land holds vast riches, and I knew that someday…”

User cleared his throat, urging him to omit the prologue.

The prisoner’s quick response was gratifying. “I bumped into Minnakht in Waset-a year ago, that must’ve been-and he let slip hints of his good fortune. I thought to learn his se cret. Later he would say nothing, and in my anger I slew him.”

“Have you not failed to fill in the details of your black deed?” Bak asked in a hard voice. “When first we met, you told me you were brought across the sea, dropped on the shore, and were accosted by men who beat you and left you to die. Was that tale Minnakht’s rather than yours?”

Ahmose hesitated, but finally nodded. “Yes.”

User’s mouth twisted in contempt. “You met him as a friend, then set upon him, bound him so he was helpless, and beat him to death. What kind of man are you?”

Ahmose’s mouth clamped tight, which in itself was an ad mission of guilt.

Nefertem made a sound deep within his throat, part angry growl, part heartfelt pain. The nomads seated around them, who had thought of Minnakht as one of themselves, glared at the prisoner and murmured angry words. Wensu and Ani,

Amonmose and Nebenkemet looked shocked and saddened.

The old man who cooked for Nefertem scurried forward.

For a moment Bak thought he meant to slay the prisoner. In stead he spat on his face, turned his back to him in a gesture of contempt, and rotated the gazelle over the hearth.

As the old man retreated, Bak pressed on, not bothering to hide his disgust for so cowardly a murder. “Why did you send Senna to Minnakht’s father? Why did he not simply dis appear in the desert?”

“I thought to convince Inebny that his son was truly dead,”

Ahmose said, wiping the spittle onto his shoulder, “and

Senna wished to collect the livestock and supplies he was due. It never occurred to us that the commander would find a man to take up the search-you, a seasoned police officer and that he’d insist Senna serve as your guide. Or that you’d join User’s caravan.”

“I doubt we would have if a dead man hadn’t been found when first we came upon them.” Bak’s voice grew hard, grim. “You slew that man, did you not?”

Ahmose hesitated. User shook the stick at him like the long finger of a teacher reprimanding a pupil. The tip had turned black as the heat dissipated, a fact the prisoner had to have noticed. Still, he answered with a nod.

“Who was he?”

“He was a soldier, Paser by name, a friend of Minnakht.