Lauren Haney: Cruel Deceit

“Someone ordered you to slay me?”

“No one orders me about. No one.”

Bak nodded to Kasaya, who eased the Hittite’s hand closer to the heat. “Who wanted me dead, Zuwapi?”

Staring at the burning coals in the gaping furnace, Zuwapi growled, “I don’t know!”

“You have heard of the murders in the sacred precinct, have you not?” Karoya asked.

“Who hasn’t?”

“Did you know the two men slain there?” Bak demanded.

Zuwapi licked his lips. “I did not.”

“Do you always lie when the truth would serve you bet ter? You knew Meryamon. He stole the objects you placed on board Antef’s ship.”

Zuwapi’s mouth tightened, holding inside his answer.

“What of the red-haired man?” Bak asked. “Will you try to tell me he, too, is a stranger to you?”

Surprise flitted across Zuwapi’s face, but was quickly wiped away with a sneer. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“I saw Meryamon pass a message to a red-haired man, and he, in turn, spoke to you. You were in front of Ipet-resyt during the opening ceremonies of the festival.”

Zuwapi’s attitude changed once again, this time to a sly defiance. “If you saw me talk to a red-haired man, I don’t doubt that you did. I’ve exchanged words with many men since the festival began. Strangers mostly. How can I recall one over another?”

“You were not strangers to one another.” Bak gave the

Hittite a long, speculative look. “I believe Meryamon passed word to the red-haired man that the auditor Woserhet had been slain. He most likely mentioned that I’d noticed a sim ilarity between Woserhet’s death and that of Maruwa. The redhead, in turn, passed the word to you. Who did you pass it to, Zuwapi? Captain Antef?”

“Antef was a man in a hurry,” Karoya said, “pressing me to allow him to sail away from Waset. At the very least, you warned him to take care.”

Bak formed a scornful smile. “Does the red-haired man pull your strings, Zuwapi, as a child would pull a toy with movable parts?”

The Hittite’s laugh failed to conceal his resentment at be ing called a puppet. “Have you ever thought to become a teller of tall tales, Lieutenant?”

“Somehow I can’t imagine any of you-neither you nor

Meryamon nor Antef-thinking of a way to safely steal from the sacred precinct. The priest was young, too un worldly to create a plan that would go on successfully for several years. Captain Antef has no direct connection with the sacred precinct and wouldn’t know how to go about it.

You’re a foreigner who knows not the ways of the lord

Amon and the men who toil for him. Which means someone else planned the thefts. Who, Zuwapi?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Irritated with the game the Hittite was playing, Bak sig naled Kasaya, who jerked Zuwapi’s right hand toward the furnace. “Did you take the lives of Maruwa, Meryamon, and

Woserhet?”

Zuwapi flung a contemptuous look at him. “You wouldn’t dare burn me. I’ve friends in the royal house in Hattusa. Do harm to me and your sovereign would hear of their objec tions in the strongest possible terms.”

“Answer my question, Zuwapi.”

“I’ve no answer to give you. Sir!” he added in a mocking manner.

Bak nodded to Kasaya, who jerked the Hittite forward, pro pelling his hand into the mouth of the furnace. Sweat popped out on Zuwapi’s brow, his expression grew pained. Whether the intense heat of the coals had reached his hand or he simply feared being burned, his interrogators could not tell.

“Did you slay Maruwa, Woserhet, and Meryamon?” Bak demanded.

Zuwapi’s voice rose in pitch, losing its roughness. “How many times must I tell you? I’ve slain no one.”

“If you didn’t, you surely suspected their deaths were re lated to the thefts in the sacred precinct.”

“Not at first. Not until Meryamon was slain. Then…” He hesitated, appeared to reach a decision, said, “I didn’t know what to think.”

Bak did not believe him for an instant. “If you didn’t slay them, you must know who did.”

Karoya, equally skeptical, dropped his role as mediator.

He signaled Kasaya, who shoved Zuwapi’s hand closer to the burning coals.

“Don’t!” Sweat reeking of fear poured from the Hittite.

“We don’t wish to maim you,” Karoya said, “but we must if you don’t tell us who took those men’s lives.”

Kasaya shifted forward as if readying himself to shove the

Hittite’s hand onto the coals.

“Nehi.” Zuwapi stared into the furnace and swallowed hard. “He’s the man you saw, the one with red hair. He said he didn’t slay them, but he must’ve.” The Hittite’s eyes darted to ward Bak. “He’s the man who told me I must get rid of you.”

“Where can we find him?” Karoya asked.

“He toils at the harbor. He’s overseer of the men who carry newly arrived offerings from the ships to the store houses of Amon.”

At a nod from Bak, Kasaya allowed Zuwapi to pull his hand back, but not so far that his confidence would return.

Rubbing it as if it had truly been burned, the Hittite gave the two officers a wounded look. Bak could not sympathize. In spite of the pain inflicted upon him, he disliked acting the bully, but the quick results testified to its effectiveness.

“Who planned the robberies?” he asked.

Zuwapi turned morose. “I was never told, but Nehi must’ve. Either him or Meryamon.”

Bak could not credit the young priest with so important a role. “You weren’t curious?”

“I was.” Zuwapi spoke through gritted teeth, as if holding inside a resentment that had been building for months. “I tried many times to guess his name with no success, even tried prying the name from Nehi. I failed. He would say nothing. Nothing, I tell you.”

Most of the cargo vessels moored along the waterfront had arrived long before the Beautiful Feast of Opet began, al lowing plenty of time to unload before the temptations of the festival drew crews and workmen away from more serious endeavors. As a result, Bak thought it best to start their search for Nehi in the sacred precinct.

“It can’t be true.” Nebamon, overseer of the storehouses from which many of the ritual objects had been stolen, flung a perplexed look at Bak, Karoya, and Thanuny. “Meryamon was such a nice young man, so helpful. Utterly devoted to the lord Amon.”

“We believe he not only took objects over an extended pe riod of time, but he also altered the records to hide his wrongdoing and that of another man.” The auditor tapped a large scroll-filled basket, so heavy the servant carrying it had both arms wrapped firmly around it. “Each and every docu ment in this container has been tampered with.”

“So many?” Nebamon gulped.

Bak glanced at Sergeant Psuro, standing in the doorway of the small walled courtyard, barring entry or exit. He did not mistrust Nebamon, but thought it best to take precau tions lest he erred. “We believe Nehi, in his position as over seer of the workmen who carry offerings from incoming ships to the storehouses of Amon, was also making off with items meant to be used in the sacred rituals.”

“Nehi?” Nebamon frowned, doubtful. “A most congenial man. All who know him like him.”

“When I spoke with you several days ago, I told you of a red-haired man I saw you talking with while standing in the courtyard in front of Ipet-resyt. The opening procession had entered the sacred precinct and there you were, side by side, watching a group of Hittite acrobats. That man had to have been Nehi, yet when I asked, you denied knowing him.”

“Did I?” Nebamon raised both hands and ran his fingers through the curly white hair above his ears. “I don’t remem ber seeing him there-the courtyard was teeming with peo ple, if you recall-but perhaps we exchanged a few trifling words.”