Lauren Haney: Cruel Deceit

“Or to take something of value,” Tetynefer added.

Bak was not especially surprised at so casual an attitude toward guarding the sacred precinct. Few people would risk offending the greatest of the gods. “Did any of you happen to see Woserhet arrive?”

“I did,” Tetynefer said. “He came from the north, as if from the god’s mansion. I wouldn’t have noticed him-there were too many others hustling and bustling around, per forming tasks related to the festival-but he was so deep within his thoughts that he stumbled over a blind dog that lays in the lane every morning, warming his tired old bones.

He felt so bad he gave me a food token, telling me to get meat for the cur. After that he went into the storage maga zine where Meryamon found him.”

“Did you go then to get the meat?” Bak asked.

“I didn’t have time.” Tetynefer’s eyes narrowed, fearing

Bak might be questioning his honesty rather than his where abouts. “Never fear, sir. I’ll not take food from a dog’s mouth.”

Bak reassured him with a smile. “The three of you never left this sector after Woserhet came?”

“No, sir,” they said as one.

“After he entered the storehouse, how much time passed before Meryamon smelled smoke?”

“A half hour.” Tetynefer’s eyes darted toward the younger guards. “I told you right away about the token. Would a half hour be a fair guess?”

The stout one nodded; the other looked doubtful. “Closer to an hour, I’d say.”

“Did you notice any strangers wandering around after he came?”

The three guards laughed.

“One man in three, maybe one in four, was a stranger,” the taller guard explained. “During this busy time, the regular priests need all the help they can get.”

Bak listened to the chatter of birds in the otherwise silent sacred precinct and imagined how full of life it must have been so short a time ago. The mansion of the god and the many buildings crowded around it, literally a city within the city of Waset, had been alive with people and activity. Then almost everyone had gone, leaving the streets and lanes de serted, the buildings empty, the scrolls and sacred vessels abandoned. The slayer could have struck at any time, but the most opportune time would have been those last few confus ing moments when everyone was preparing to leave, too busy to notice and too eager to get away.

“He’s not dead! He can’t be!”

“I’m sorry, mistress Ashayet, but you must believe me.

His ka has flown to the netherworld.” Of all Bak’s many and varied duties as a police officer, the one he disliked the most was informing the family of a loved one’s death.

The small, fragile woman knelt, wrapped her arms around the three young children clinging to her skirt, and hugged them close. “We’re waiting for him. He’ll come at any in stant to take us to Ipet-resyt to see the end of the procession.”

“Mistress Ashayet…”

She released the children, stepped back, and sent them to ward the rear of the house with a fond slap on the oldest one’s bare behind. She smiled brightly at Bak. “What can I be thinking, leaving you standing in the doorway like this?

Come in, sir. You may as well await my husband in comfort.”

Wishing he could flee, Bak followed her through the front room, which was cluttered with hay for the family donkey, large water and storage jars, spindles and an upright loom, and four ducks nesting in large flattish bowls. She led him into the next room, the primary family living space, whose high ceiling was supported by a single tall red pillar and pierced by windows that allowed inside a generous amount of light. A couple of stools, a woven reed chest, and a tiny table shared the space with the low mudbrick platform on which the family sat and the adults slept.

“Take my husband’s stool, sir. Would you like a beer while you wait?”

“Mistress Ashayet.” He caught her by the upper arms, making her face him. “I regret I must be so harsh, but you leave me no choice. Someone took your husband’s life. He was slain early this morning. In a storehouse in the sacred precinct of the lord Amon.”

“No!” Her eyes met his, a plea formed on her face. “No,” she said again with less assurance, a faltering conviction.

“Your husband is dead, mistress.” He held her tight, forc ing her to give him her full attention. “You must believe me.

You alone shoulder the responsibility for your household, your children. You must be strong for them.”

A look of horror, of unimaginable pain fell over her face like a cloud. She jerked away, stumbled through the next room and into the kitchen, a small area lightly roofed with branches and straw, where she dropped to the hard-packed earthen floor and began to sob. The children gathered around her, lost and forlorn. Bak shifted a stool to a place where he could watch, making sure she did no harm to herself, and sat down to wait.

After what seemed to him an eternity and no doubt longer to a child, the youngest of the three, a girl less than two years of age, began to whimper. The oldest, a boy of no more than four years, looked hopefully at his mother. When she failed to notice, he went to the little girl, put his arms around her, and tried to soothe her. Left alone, the middle child, another boy, hurried to his mother and prodded her, trying to attract her attention.

She lifted her face from her hands, saw the youngsters’ unhappiness and confusion. Gathering her courage, she wiped away the tears with the back of her hand and spoke to them in a soft and comforting voice. Not until they returned to their play did she give a long, ragged sigh and look at

Bak. Rising from the floor, she plucked two beer jars from a basket, broke the plugs from both, and entered the room in which he sat.

“Who slew my husband?” she asked.

“We don’t yet know.” Bak saw anger forming, a substitute for sorrow. “I made a vow to Amonked, the Storekeeper of

Amon, that I’d snare the vile criminal-and I will.”

She handed a jar to him and sat on the platform. Her eyes were puffy and red, her face pale. Her expression grew hard and determined. “Woserhet was a good man, Lieutenant, a good father to our children. Whoever took his life must be made to pay with his own life.”

“Do you know anyone who might’ve wished him dead?”

“I told you, he was a good man. He had no enemies.”

Bak took a sip of beer, which was milder and smoother than most kitchen brews. The woman erred, thinking her husband had no foes. Woserhet’s death had been no acci dent. “I’ve been told he reported directly to the chief priest.

Can you tell me what his duties were?”

“He seldom spoke of his task. Each time he did, he had me vow that I’d not repeat his words. You must ask Hapuseneb.”

“Hapuseneb is presently walking to Ipet-resyt in today’s procession. He’ll be leading rituals of one kind or another for the remainder of the day and for ten days more. As much as I’d like to speak with him, I can’t.”

She stared at her fingers, wound tightly around the beer jar.

“If I’m to find Woserhet’s slayer, I must begin without de lay. Not in eleven days’ time.”

“I promised…”

He leaned toward her, willing her to help. “Mistress

Ashayet, your husband was responsible for the reversion of offerings for the Beautiful Feast of Opet. To be given so im portant a task, to dole out foodstuffs for such a momentous occasion, he must’ve held some position of responsibility.”

The silence stretched, then suddenly, “He was an auditor.”

“An auditor?” he echoed.

She nodded. “Hapuseneb, the chief priest, sent him to the lord Amon’s storehouses here and throughout the land of