Lauren Haney - Place of Darkness

“No, sir, I caught him as he was leaving. I think he was looking for a boat to carry him across the river.”

Bak thanked the scribe and sent him on his way. Had Menna crossed the river on an ordinary errand, or in an attempt to escape? Or to do further damage? He prayed fervently to the lord Amon that he had not missed the only opportunity he might have had to lay hands on the guilty man.

“I must go right away to Djeser Djeseru. Senenmut has delayed his inspection until after midday, and I must do all I can to ensure his safety while he’s there.”

“Do you think Neferu’s tomb is the one the malign spirit is seeking?” Hori asked, trying to hide his distress.

“It’s impossible to say. We’ve no idea how many wives and daughters Nebhepetre Montuhotep had.” Noting the gloom on both their faces, Bak realized he could not simply walk away from them after they had searched the archives with such diligence. “The two of you must come with me. If Lieutenant Menna turns up at Djeser Djeseru as I hope, you’ve every right to be there when I question him. While we await him, we can search out the tomb he’s looking for.”

Hori gaped.

Kaemwaset looked perplexed. “Lieutenant Menna?”

Bak realized they were ignorant of all he had learned since last he had seen them. “Lieutenant Menna may be the malign spirit. If he proves to be innocent, I fear we must look closer at a dead man: Montu.”

“Menna?” Kaemwaset shook his head in denial. “He’s the guard officer, a man above reproach.”

“Come. I’ll explain on the way.”

Kaemwaset looked as sober as Bak had ever seen him.

“The workmen and artisans must not be given the smallest hint of what you’re thinking. If they convince themselves Menna is the one who’s brought about so much injury and death, they’ll tear him apart.”

Bidding a temporary farewell to Hori and Kaemwaset, Bak hurried up the causeway to Djeser Djeseru about an hour before midday. The scribe and priest turned aside to walk to the ruined temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep. At their heels, ranging from side to side as the urge struck, trotted a large white dog they had borrowed from a desert patrol unit garrisoned in Waset.

Bak stopped at the eastern end of the terrace, where it overflowed onto the ruined walls of the temple of Djeserkare Amonhotep and his revered mother Ahmose Nefertari.

Standing quite still, concentrating fully on all he saw, he studied the cliffs around the valley and the rim above, where a path ran along the edge. With the sun striking the cliff high and from the front, the vertical surfaces looked flat and the crevices shallow. The tower-like projections merged into the background and much detail was lost. A thin haze, minute particles of airborne dust, turned the cliffs an unnatural pinkish purple, further obscuring all but the most outstand-ing features. The heat was pervasive, the sand hot beneath his sandals.

The malign spirit had twice used rock slides as a means of destruction, and Bak could think of no more spectacular a way of creating further devastation and fear than a slide originating high up the face of the cliff. Along much of the way, rock and debris would plunge harmlessly onto the tower-like projections, but he could see several chute-like places where a slide could fall unimpeded onto the memorial temple of Maatkare Hatshepsut. One had but to look at the ruined columned hall at the rear of Nebhepetre Montuhotep’s temple to see what damage could be done.

“Menna.” Pashed, standing in the sunlight at the top of the ramp leading to the temple, looked out across Djeser Djeseru, thinking of all Bak had told him. “Yes. I’ve always thought him a man who’d go to far greater lengths to attain his goals in a less than admirable fashion than to exert himself by earning his bread in a hardworking and diligent manner.”

Bak gave the senior architect a surprised look. “You never said.”

“You surely noticed he seldom visited Djeser Djeseru. Or any of the cemeteries of western Waset, for that matter. If I’d not taken control, the guards here would’ve spent much of each day playing knucklebones and throwsticks, drinking beer and wagering. As it was, they neglected their duty at night.”

“Afraid of the malign spirit.”

Against his will, Bak looked at the cliff towering above the temple. He saw no movement along the rim, no man poised to start a rock slide, but his skin crawled as he thought again of the possibilities for destruction.

“I could hardly blame them for that,” the architect said grudgingly. “They were but a few among the many.”

Laughter, a sound incongruous under the circumstances, tugged Bak’s glance to the north end of the lower colonnade, where a gang of men were increasing the height of the rubble ramp in the expectation of hauling up another stone block and placing it on top of a partially completed column.

“Montu would’ve known even better than Menna how best to do damage to Djeser Djeseru.”

Pashed did not appear surprised by the suggestion, but gave it some thought nonetheless. “He was indolent, yes, selfish and arrogant, and cruel in his own way, but I never thought him so callous he’d slay men at random.”

“Someone did, and I’d bet my best kilt it was either him or Menna.” A darkness consumed Bak’s heart, a feeling of sadness-and rage-that one man could be responsible for so much needless death and injury. “If one of them didn’t, the fishermen or Imen did at their leader’s instruction.”

Pashed’s voice turned harsh with anger. “I’d like to slay them all with my bare hands.”

“Imen can do no more harm. If the fishermen haven’t run away, they may well come today, drawn by Senenmut and the desire to do damage. And I’ve summoned Menna. .” A wry smile flitted across Bak’s lips. “. . with a promise that the two of us will snare the malign spirit, he and I together.

Whatever the truth, I’ll find it, and your troubles will be over.”

“I wish I could be as certain as you.”

Bak tamped down his irritation. Over the past few years, Pashed had shouldered far too much adversity for any one man. He had every right to be pessimistic. “There’ve been four attempts on my life, Pashed. Whether Menna is the malign spirit or the fishermen are walking in the shadow of a dead man, they have to know their time is running out. If they’re determined to bring about an accident serious enough to stop construction, they must do so without delay.

What better time than when Senenmut is here?”

“Senenmut has the ear of our sovereign.” The worry lines deepened in the architect’s face, alarm seeped into his voice.

“He’s her right hand, much beloved. How can we let him walk into what could be a deadly trap?”

Bak had explained once that Maiherperi and Amonked had both tried to dissuade Senenmut from coming. He saw no need to repeat himself. “Move as many of the men as you can away from the cliff, and remove the craftsmen from the sanctuary and side chapels. I know, because of Senenmut’s inspection, that you can’t take everyone away from their tasks, but do the best you can.”

Looking harried, pushed to the limit, Pashed nodded.

“You must go from one chief craftsman to another, from one foreman to another, and tell them to be extra alert for anything out of the ordinary, any problem. We may not be able to stop altogether what they plan, but with luck and the help of every god great and small, we should be able to contain the damage.”

“Where will I find you should I need you?” Pashed asked, too worn down to offer further resistance.

“Utter not one word of what I’ve told you,” Bak cautioned, not for the first time. “I must speak with Menna before the men learn he could be the malign spirit. I don’t want them attacking an innocent man.”