Lauren Haney - Cruel Deceit

Kemet. He gave him a scribe and four other men, all ser vants indentured to the god. His task and that of Tati, the scribe, was to make sure the records matched the stored items. The other four lifted and fetched, ran errands and, when the need arose, saw that no one impeded them while they went about their task.”

Bak whistled softly. “A heavy responsibility.” A task where a man might well make enemies.

“Yes, sir.” She spoke so softly he could barely hear.

“His most recent audits have been conducted here, I gather, in the southern capital.”

She nodded. “He’s been in Waset for about a month. We were so happy to have him home.” She swallowed hard, flashed a smile much too animated to be real.

“Had his behavior changed recently in any way? As if he might’ve quarreled with a priest or scribe who resented his intrusion? Or as if he’d come upon a dishonesty?”

“He’s been troubled for the past few days, yes.” She could not help but see the expectancy leaping into his heart. “He wouldn’t speak of it, but he was distracted much of the time.

When I tried to draw him out, he grew irritable. Impatient with the children. Quarrelsome even. He wasn’t like that usually.” She bit her lip, her voice trembled. “He was a good, kind man, Lieutenant. Decent. Who would want to slay him?”

Bak knew he must soon leave, allowing her the privacy to mourn. “Did he ever bring home any records?”

“No, sir.” Tears spilled from her eyes. She hastily wiped them away and glanced around the room. “As you can see, we have little enough space. To add anything more would’ve made us too crowded by far.”

“Where would he have kept them?”

“The chief priest assigned him a small building not far from the mansion of the lord Amon, somewhere outside the walls of the sacred precinct. Hapuseneb wished to separate him and his servants from all who might wish to influence them.

Ptahmes, Hapuseneb’s aide, can tell you how to find it.”

“They’ve all gone, sir.” The guard, a man of advanced years with a huge mane of white hair, looked at Bak as at a man befuddled. His task was to watch over the spacious building, built around the open courtyard in which they stood, where the chief priest and his staff carried out their administrative duties. “Surely you know that not a man within the sacred precinct would miss the procession if he didn’t have to.”

“I know that a large number of priests escort the lord

Amon to his southern mansion,” Bak said, smothering his ir ritation, “and I’m also aware that many men must stand well behind them, making sure they’re properly cleansed, clothed, and equipped. I assume much of the preparation is done here, after which they’re free to go.”

“I fear, Lieutenant, that you suffer from the common illu sion that priests are an idle lot. Most toil from dawn till dusk, their tasks never ending.”

The old man was so haughty Bak wondered if he had been a priest. “What of Ptahmes? Is he equally industrious or might I find him watching the procession?”

The guard pursed his lips in disapproval. “He certainly can’t speak with you today. He’s at Ipet-resyt, preparing for the lord Amon’s arrival and the rituals that will be conducted through the next ten days.”

Bak gave up. With no one available to help, he had no choice but to forget the dead man for the remainder of the day and give himself over to the festivities.

Bak stood on the processional way in front of the barque sanctuary where last he had seen his Medjays. As expected, the structure was empty, his men gone. Gods and royalty had long ago marched on, accompanied by the priests and digni taries, the dancers and acrobats and singers. The spectators had drifted away, many following their sovereigns and gods to Ipet-resyt. Those few satisfied they had seen enough were making their way home, while a large number had gone off in search of beer and a good time. The booths had been dis mantled to be carried farther along the route and set up again. The soldiers had broken ranks to join the rest in what ever endeavor most appealed to them.

He had forgotten how utterly deserted the processional way could be after everyone moved on. Sparrows twittered undisturbed in a sycamore whose limbs brushed the sanctu ary. Leaves rustled along the crushed limestone path, blown by the desultory breeze. Crows marched across trampled grasses and weeds, searching for bits of food dropped and forgotten. A dog gnawing a bone growled each time one of the large black and gray birds came close, threatening to steal his prize.

Bak glanced at the lord Re, already three-quarters of the way across the vault of heaven. No wonder he was hungry.

The food vendors would, by this time, have all moved to the far end of the processional way, near Ipet-resyt. More than a quarter hour’s fast walk.

He hastened southward. At first he had the path to him self, but the farther he strode, the more people he came upon. Many walked toward Ipet-resyt, while a few strode in the opposite direction. Some in a rush and others ambling along as if they had all the time in the world. People alone or in groups, chatting and laughing. Persons with the seri ous demeanors of the awe-struck or devout. Revelers who had watched the sacred barques and their sovereigns pass by and now saw fit to make merry. The few remaining po lice and soldiers turned a blind eye to all but the worst of fenses.

About halfway between Ipet-isut and Ipet-resyt, Bak spot 46

Lauren Haney ted two familiar figures approaching from the south: his scribe Hori and Kasaya, the youngest of his Medjays. He waved. Smiling with pleasure, they hastened to meet him.

“What are you two doing here?” he asked. “Have you grown weary of the pageantry?”

“We were looking for you, sir,” Hori said, falling in beside him. Delighted with the festival, the chubby young scribe practically skipped along the path.

“Where are the rest of our men?”

Kasaya took his place on Bak’s opposite side and they strode southward. “As soon as the procession was well away from the first barque sanctuary, Imsiba went off with his wife, leaving Pashenuro in command.” The tall, hulking young Medjay shifted his shield to a more comfortable posi tion and slung his spear over his shoulder in a very unsol dierly fashion. “He suggested we all stay together and keep up with the procession. So we did, hoping you’d rejoin us.”

“When the lord Amon rested at the fourth barque sanctu ary, we saw Amonked slip in among the noblemen, but you weren’t with him.” Hori eyed a pretty young woman stand ing in the shade of a sycamore with what had to be her par ents and siblings. “For the longest time, he was surrounded by people of wealth and position, and we couldn’t get near him.”

The young Medjay noticed Hori’s wandering attention and winked at Bak. “At the seventh barque sanctuary,

Pashenuro finally managed to speak with him. To ask him where you were.”

The girl turned her head to look at the three of them and

Hori glanced quickly away, his face flaming. “He told us of the dead man and said you’d stayed behind to investigate.

We could probably find you in the sacred precinct.”

“So we decided to look,” Kasaya said.

Half facing Bak, the scribe danced sideways up the pro cessional way, his feet scuffling the limestone chips, the girl forgotten. “Will you tell us about the dead man, sir? Who was he? What was he doing in the sacred precinct? Was he…?”

Laughing, Bak raised a hand for silence. While he spoke of all he had seen and heard, they hurried on. The crowds walking along with them grew thicker, the talking and laughter louder, more anticipatory. Seldom did anyone have the opportunity to see their sovereigns down on their knees before the lord Amon, adoring the deity with incense and food offerings. But here and now, at the beginning of the